


Cherry Bomb

by key_to_levis_heart



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), captain america: civil war - Fandom
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Illness, Minor Character Death, Mourning, Pepper is a good friend, Smoking, a mix of homecoming and the early comics, punk!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/key_to_levis_heart/pseuds/key_to_levis_heart
Summary: After Aunt May's death, Peter is left alone in an empty apartment he can barely afford. He starts skipping school, acting out in his anger, and beating criminals half to death.Until he's recruited by Tony Stark.A.K.A. a story of two broken individuals finding solace in each other.





	1. Peter's a punk little shit

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a silly fic about punk peter being a lil firecracker and seducing tony, and then it got a head of me and became serious lmao
> 
> also want to note that peter is only able to live in the apartment by himself because of inheritance from his parents, as soon as he turned 18 he was able to access the trust fund left for him in his parents' wills, that'll be touched upon in part 2 (if there ever is one)

Peter leans back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, popping his cherry bubble gum obnoxiously loudly as he paints his nails with black polish.

 

“Parker, put your feet down,” Mr. Harrington orders.

 

Peter stares him down for a long moment, blowing a bubble and letting it pop.

 

“Make me,” he replies, raising an eyebrow challengingly.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see another student wrinkling his nose at the smell of nail polish and the lingering cigarette smoke clinging to Peter’s beat up leather jacket, curling around him and mixing horridly with the smell of his fruity gum.

 

“See me after class,” Mr. Harrington snaps, and Peter wishes the man would just shut his fucking mouth and let him paint his nails in peace.

 

He just nods his head, not bothering to look up, but he can practically feel Ned’s disapproving stare behind him.

 

 _Fuck school_ , he thinks, capping his nail polish and blowing on his wet nails. _And fuck this class in particular._

 

He doesn’t wait for Ned when class ends, walking out with high heeled boots clacking against the tile floor, crumpling the homework worksheet and tossing it in the trash as he leaves the room.

 

He is _definitely_ going to end up with a week of d-hall for ignoring his teacher like this, but fuck it; he just wants to go beat up some criminals.

 

-

 

He starts patrol before the school day even ends, walking right out of the building during lunch.

 

(He felt oddly powerful when Flash made eye contact and didn’t say anything, but even so Peter sneered and flashed him a freshly painted middle finger).

 

He’s supposed to be in Spanish 4 and instead he’s swinging around Queens aimlessly until he finds any semblance of criminal activity.

 

He’s a little conspicuous during the middle of the day, and more than a little suspicious decked out in full black, but he’s sleek and looking _dangerous_ and that’s exactly what he wants.

 

He grins under his mask at a mugging in progress, leaping down into the alleyway to make his dramatic entrance.

 

“ _Oh shit,_ ” he hears. “ _It’s the devil, I thought he was only in Hell’s Kitchen!_ ”

 

Peter groans, “Come on, why am I always mistaken for that guy?” He gestures to himself, “I am clearly far more agile and handsome.”

 

He flicks his wrist, sending out a shot of fluid at the man’s knife.

 

“I’m just your not-so friendly neighborhood Spiderman!”

 

He feels a twisted satisfaction at bones crunching underneath his fists and blood dampening his gloves.

 

“You think the tooth fairy will still give me money for _your_ teeth I just knocked out?” he quips before the police arrive.

 

-

 

There’s someone in his room when he gets back.

 

He swings in through the window and there’s a man there, looking up at his posters.

 

For some reason the man looks _very_ similar to Tony Stark, but there’s no way Tony Stark would be in his room.

 

 _Not-Tony Stark_ notices him, and turns to face him, his presence absolutely captivating in his expensive suit and designer sunglasses.

 

“The man of the hour, just who I was waiting for,” he says, a charming smile on his face, and Peter fucking _hates_ it.

 

Peter angrily pulls off his mask, hair matted with sweat and eyeliner smudged, emphasizing his dark circles.

 

“Either you’re a hallucination that Mysterio made to fuck with me, or I’m being recruited for some Avengers bullshit, and either way please _get the fuck out._ ”

 

“Well that’s no way to greet a guest,” the stranger deadpans.

 

Peter shoots him a glare, muttering “I said ‘please,’” as he walks to his bedroom door and presses his ear to it, calling out for May and hearing if she's in the apartment.

 

_Wait, there is no Aunt May anymore._

 

“Oh, it’s just us. I let myself in,” the man clarifies, earning him a sneer from Peter.

 

“Meaning you broke in.”

 

He scoffs and waves a hand dismissively, “details, details. Anyways, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

 

Peter frowns, looking him up and down, eyes squinted.

 

“And I’m just supposed to believe that _Tony Stark_ is here in my bedroom asking for a favor?”

 

Peter abruptly picks up an old iron man action figure from his nightstand and tosses it at the intruder.

 

He breathes a little more easily when the man, now evidently real, catches it.

 

“Okay, we’ve established that you’re not a hallucination,” Peter opens his door and gestures towards the hallway, “but I’d still prefer if you left. Immediately.”

 

Mr. Stark makes no move to leave, glancing back at the posters instead.

 

“Now, this is cute,” he says, gesturing at the poster of The Clash. “You weren’t even alive when they were big.”

 

Peter steps closer and snarls, baring his teeth like a rabid dog, but he lets Mr. Stark continue.

 

He’s angry that his space is being encroached upon, but he wants to see where is is going.

 

“Now listen kid. You’re not in a great spot. Do me a solid and I’ll help you out on the Spidey-Boy front. Deal?”

 

Peter sputters for a moment, gesturing wildly at nothing.

 

“No! No it’s not alright, what am I even agreeing to? What do you even know about me?”

 

Without missing a beat, Mr. Stark responds mechanically, relaying the information he’d apparently dug up.

 

“Peter Benjamin Parker. Age eighteen. Used to be a model student with a 3.9 GPA and participating in Academic Decathlon and band. And then suddenly you started skipping class, your grades dropped, and you quit extracurriculars. No plans for college, and set to be repeating senior year instead of graduating.”

 

He hums to himself, and strokes his chin, pretending to think.

 

“Hm. Oh yeah, and you’ve been moonlighting as Spiderman!” he concludes with a snap.

 

Peter couldn’t help but notice that _no living family_ was left out, but he’s sure Mr. Stark is aware of that.

 

Mr. Stark walks over to Peter and places a placating hand on his shoulder, and Peter immediately shrugs it off.

 

Mr. Stark doesn’t seem deterred.

 

“Now, kiddo. You ever been to Germany? Because I could really use your help over in Germany. Your reputation is garbage, but you’ve got the skills.”

 

“You mean for Avengers business?” Peter asks hesitantly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Peter inhales deeply, counting back from ten in his head.

 

“Not a chance,” he replies cooly. “I know some shit is going down after what happened with Ultron, but count me out.”

 

Mr Stark rubs his hands together, thinking.

 

“Lab access,” he says simply, and Peter doesn’t miss the way his eye light up at Peter’s shock. “Specifically my personal lab. Unlimited access. Plus a new suit I designed for you.”

 

Not many things get Peter excited.

 

But access to Iron Man’s lab? Seeing works in progress, access to better tools…

 

He lets out a squeal before he can think to stop it, a genuine grin growing on his face.

 

He clamps a hand over his mouth before he can make a bigger fool of himself. He takes a breath, calming down and wiping the dumb smile off his face.

 

“Okay Mr. Stark,” he says, feeling stupidly giddy for the first time in months, trying and failing to hide a smile, because dammit he’s got an image to upkeep.

 

This time Peter allows the friendly pat on his shoulder.

 

-

 

Mr. Stark’s lab is honestly a dream come true.

 

In fact, he’s not totally convinced this _isn’t_ a dream.

 

He wanders the room slowly, heels clacking and bubblegum popping while he takes everything in.

 

Germany was a shitshow, and there’s a tense atmosphere surrounding Peter and Mr. Stark; a palpable solemness as Mr. Stark mourns losing a dear friend.

 

Peter knows how that feels.

 

(For a brief moment he considers reconnecting with Ned, but the thought quickly passes).

 

He handles everything he comes across cautiously, running his painted fingertips along every gadget within reach, his touch delicate and almost reverent.

 

“This is amazing,” he murmurs to himself, absently chewing his gum while he takes in the soft glow of electronics and their quiet hums, glancing over schematics left in view.

 

He’s worried of shattering the dream.

 

He’s even more worried about shattering Mr. Stark.

 

His feelings about his new mentor (as Mr. Stark claims to be) are too difficult to process, so he just doesn’t. This man used to be his hero, until he grew up and stopped _believing_ in heroes.

 

And yet; behind him stands a broken man, undoubtedly deserving of his respect.

 

“Could use more black,” Peter deadpans once he’s made his way around the room.

 

He turns to Mr. Stark, enjoying the fragile smile he receives.

 

“I’m passed my punk days, kid. Mostly.”

 

Timidly, Peter smiles too.

 

“Besides,” Mr. Stark adds, “red is more my style.”

 

Peter hops onto a table, sitting casually with a leg brought up to his chest with an arm slung over his knee, boot planted firmly on the surface without a care of the space getting dirty.

 

He loudly pops a bubble. “So, this table is mine now,” he states bluntly.

 

Mr. Stark crosses his arms with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Don’t get too comfy,” he says, “there’s some conditions to using the lab.”

 

Peter meets his stare challengingly.

 

“Um...how about no,” he replies.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Peter leans forward. “I said, _no_ ,” he says firmly. “You said ‘unlimited access,’ which I’m pretty sure is synonymous with _‘unconditional_.” He blows a bubble with a smug expression.

 

Mr. Stark throws up his hands in surrender, rolling his eyes with a quiet mutter of _“punk ass teenagers.”_

 

Peter leans back again, placing his weight on his palm; definitely getting comfortable.

 

“Don’t worry, Stark, I’m not gonna break anything, or leak schematics, or whatever.”

 

“And no smoking,” Mr. Stark adds.

 

Peter falls back with a groan, laying on the table and staring at the ceiling. “Ugh, _fine_.”

 

Peter takes a moment to take in his surroundings, noting the tenseness emanating from Mr. Stark and his slightly fractured breathing, and the way he’s been carefully cradling his left arm.

 

Recovery evidently has not been kind.

 

“How’s your heart doing?” Peter asks quietly, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling.

 

Mr. Stark takes a moment too long to respond.

 

“Not great,” he admits. “But I’ll live.”

 

Peter hopes so.

 

A tense silence passes between them.

 

“So,” Peter begins awkwardly, “can you make my suit black?”

 

“Emo nerd,” Mr. Stark replies. “You’re seriously asking me to build another multi-million dollar suit just so you can have a different color?”

 

Peter nods with a hum. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

 

Mr. Stark scoffs, plopping down tiredly in a swivel chair. “What’s wrong with red? Red is fun.”

 

“‘ _Red is fun,_ ’” Peter repeats incredulously. “Lame.”

 

Mr. Stark smiles, and Peter thinks that maybe his mentor _will_ be okay.

 

-

 

Peter sits on top of a building, attracting more than a few stares from passerby below him thanks to his now much brighter suit.

 

In his hands is a copy of _The Daily Bugle_ he picked up from the street, crinkled and wet, but the headline is still clear enough to read.

 

His blood is absolutely boiling from the sheer _bullshit_ , and his fists clench and the paper tears beneath his fingers.

 

“ _The Spider Menace: in Red and Out for Blood?”_ he reads out loud. “What the fuck!”

 

He makes a frustrated sound, crushing the paper into a little ball and slamming it down as hard as he can onto the roofs surface.

 

He jumps up and starts pacing, talking aloud to himself. “I’m not a fucking vampire, why is everyone so startled by a damn costume change?!”

 

He should have known those pictures he sold to Jameson would be used to incriminate him somehow.

 

Fuck Jameson and his shitty psychoanalysis.

 

 _Red is fun,_ Mr. Stark had said.

 

He can hear the startled voices on the sidewalk, wondering why Spiderman is yelling and if he’s lost it.

 

 _Fine_ , let them think he’s crazy. Most of the public hates him anyway, not like it can get much worse.

 

Now itching for a fight, Peter runs and leaps off the building, mindlessly swinging through the city. For a brief moment he considers retirement, but he abandons the thought with the web trails left behind him.

 

He’s nearing known mafia territory when he spots a familiar figure lurking near an abandoned building.

 

 _That’s one of Kingpin’s lackeys,_ Peter recalls.

 

He sits crouched on a rooftop out of sight, waiting to see what the man will do, creeping closer as he watches him enter the building. As quiet as he can he leaps to the building, sticking to the wall to peer into a window.

 

He inhales a sharp breath as he puts the pieces together from what he’s seeing; a shady weapons deal.

 

It takes approximately two seconds to decide a course of action.

 

And that course of action is to notably _not_ think before kicking through the window and right into the middle of the exchange.

 

 _A bad move,_ a voice in the back of his head tells him, but all he can think about is kicking these guys asses to hell and back and webbing them outside the police station.

 

He’s reckless, instinct taking over as he throws kicks and punches, completely disregarding his spidey sense screaming _danger_.

 

He hears the bang before he registers the pain in his stomach

 

-

 

Everything happens so fast, and before he knows it Peter’s waking up in the hospital with Mr. Stark anxiously pacing in front of the bed.

 

 _I was shot,_ is the first thing he recalls. _Twice._

 

And then: _Iron Man saved me._

 

There’s too much.

 

The heart monitor is so loud, each incessant beep like an ice pick in his skull, and his eyes water from the intensity of the fluorescent light.

 

And pain.

 

There’s a throbbing pain in his torso, and a dull ache in his head.

 

 _So, I was shot_ and _concussed,_ he realizes.

 

He tries to sit up, but the sharp pain in his stomach has him gasping, falling back with a weak groan.

 

He’s faintly aware of Mr. Stark coming closer to the bed, now sitting in a chair beside him.

 

“Hey kiddo,” he says, voice strained. “You had three bullets pulled out of you, but once your healing factor kicks in you’ll be fine.”

 

The only part of the statement Peter registers is _three bullets_.

 

He was shot _three_ times.

 

He blinks slowly at Mr. Stark, taking in his ragged appearance; messy hair and deep dark circles.

 

 _You were worried,_ Peter thinks, and realizes a moment later that he’s said it out loud.

 

Mr. Stark lets out a humorless laugh.

 

“Congrats, Peter, you just won ‘understatement of the year,’” he quips bitterly. With a sigh he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“Alright kid,” he begins seriously, “I’ve got a lot to say but I’m gonna save it till you’re out of the hospital.” He gently pats Peter’s shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he says quietly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

He drifts to sleep with a calloused hand holding his own.

 

When he wakes up the pain is gone, Mr. Stark is nowhere to be seen, and he thinks that May must be worried sick.

 

 _Aunt May is dead,_ his mind supplies before he tries to call her out of habit.

 

The ache he feels in his chest has nothing to do with his healing bullet wounds.

 

“Hey kid,” he hears, interrupting his thoughts, and he looks up to see Mr. Stark walking in the room holding a small duffle bag. “I went to your apartment and got you a change of clothes. Get dressed and we’ll get going.”

 

There’s a tenseness lingering between them, irritation rolling off of Mr. Stark in waves and setting Peter on edge. The silence between them is stifling, all through checking out of the hospital and the ride back to the Avengers Tower.

 

“So,” Peter begins hesitantly, looking down at his chipping nail polish back in Mr. Stark’s penthouse suite. He feels oddly vulnerable without his beat up jacket or haphazard makeup; like he’s been laid bare and left exposed.

 

All of a sudden the tense atmosphere hits a peak and Mr. Stark seems to snap, turning to Peter abruptly.

 

“What were you thinking yesterday?” he demands sternly.

 

“Mr. Stark, I-”

 

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” he says, cutting Peter off. “The adult is speaking, so zip it.”

 

A spark of anger flashes through Peter’s veins, and his eyes shoot up to meet Mr. Stark’s with a heated glare.

 

He opens his mouth to protest, but Mr. Stark continues.

 

“I doubt you were even thinking at all! Organized crime, that’s a little above your pay grade, don’t you think?”

 

“I’m not paid-”

 

“Don’t care,” Mr. Stark replies motioning with his hand for Peter to shut his mouth, and Peter’s glare only becomes more intense. “It was a stupid move, you can’t just barge into something like that.”

 

Peter sneers, baring his teeth and clenching his fists around the bag holding his blood soaked suit.

 

“You really screwed the pooch here Peter, you should have gone to the police. No, you should have come to _me_ and I’d have tipped off the feds. The FBI has been trying to pin these guys for _years_.”

 

“Would they have actually done anything?!” Peter snaps. “I was _there_ and able to do something, so I did!”

 

“No, you were _pissed off_ and threw yourself into danger without a thought and almost got yourself killed!”

 

“But I _didn’t_ die!” Peter protests.

 

“Only because _I_ saved you!” Mr. Stark yells, making Peter flinch back. “What if I hadn’t been there, huh? You would have bled out, and that would be the end of Spiderman.”

 

Mr. Stark shakes his head, and Peter begins to deflate, shrinking back into himself feeling utterly humiliated.

 

“You’re not invincible, you need to understand that,” he tells Peter. “I know you feel responsible for other people, but I’m responsible for _you_.”

 

Peter looks up at Mr. Stark, eyes watering with frustration and shame.

 

“If you die, that’s on _me_ ,” Mr. Stark says with a tone of finality.  


Peter’s eyes shift down to the floor, wanting to avoid eye contact at all cost.

 

 _Don’t fool yourself into thinking he actually cares,_ a voice says in the back of his mind.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice guarded and defensive, like a child being scolded.

 

“Well sorry doesn’t cut it,” Mr. Stark replies. “I’m taking away your suit. You can have it back when you can prove you can actually be _responsible_. Possibly forever.”

 

Peter glares up at Mr. Stark, every word sinking into him like knives.

 

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?!” Peter shouts.

 

“I’m just looking out for you, since you clearly can’t do it for yourself-”

 

“You’re not my _dad_ , you can’t just ground me like I’m a mother-fucking _child_ _!_ And you-” he stammers, his mouth moving faster than his mind, “-you were keeping tabs on me?! I can’t believe how little you trust me!”

 

Mr. Stark recoils as if Peter just slapped him, and he feels a twinge of guilt.

 

 _You would have died if he wasn’t keeping tabs though,_ a rational part of him thinks.

 

“Just leave me alone,” he says through gritting teeth. “You can keep your fucking suit. I was fine without it before, and I’ll do fine without it again.”

 

He roughly shoves the bag with his suit into Mr. Starks arms, strong enough to push him back.

 

“Don’t contact me!” Peter shouts as he leaves, not looking back so Mr. Stark can’t see the angry tears flowing down his cheeks.

 

-

 

Peter is left in a foul mood all week, and his mind keeps drifting to Mr. Stark.

 

He feels paralyzed.

 

He can’t even bring himself to go on patrol, because as soon as he starts swinging he keeps thinking about how badly he _fucked up_.

 

He knows Mr. Stark was right, and that he shouldn’t have pushed his mentor away. He can’t help but feel like he’s ruined things permanently.

 

He should apologize, but he’s too stubborn.

 

So instead Peter fumes silently, actually attending all of his classes for once and quietly keeping out of trouble, trying to stay distracted.

 

But he’s nearing the end of his rope, barely enough left to hang himself with.

 

“Hey Parker!” he hears Flash call out to him, and Peter’s fists clench, eye twitching involuntarily.

 

Flash hasn’t bothered him in months, why does he have to do this _now_ of all times, when _everything is fallen to shit again._

 

He doesn’t respond, and Flash apparently takes that as a sign to continue.

 

“Finally getting over your little bad boy phase?” he taunts.

 

Peter keeps walking, clutching his backpack close.

 

 _Keep it together, Parker,_ he thinks to himself.

 

He does _not_ keep it together.

 

Flash steps too close and Peter acts without thinking, grabbing Flash by the shirt collar and slamming him into the closest locker. The metal dents where Flash hits it, and he hears a bone or two crack.

 

“Back. Off!” he orders lowly, punching the locker beside Flash’s head hard enough to crush the metal.

 

He knows he just outed himself as a super, but he doesn’t care right now, he just needs Flash to shut his _goddamn mouth_.

 

He ends up being suspended and threatened with expulsion.

 

-

 

Peter caves and approaches Mr. Stark himself, late that night.

 

A part of him is hurt that Mr. Stark hasn’t tried to reach out to him, but he knows communication is a two way street.

 

He’s the one who fucked it up, so he needs to be the one to fix it.

 

Donning his original black suit for the first time in months, he swings across the city and to Avengers Tower, letting himself in through an open window in Mr. Stark’s penthouse.

 

He pulls off his black mask once he gets inside, taking a deep breath to emotionally prepare himself.

 

He’s gone over a dozen versions of what he wants to say, but here in person he suddenly feels unsure.

 

“Mr. Stark?” he calls out, walking further into the suite.

 

He finds Mr. Stark sitting on the floor in the kitchen, leaning back against a cabinet with a bottle of alcohol in his hands.

 

He’d never considered that Mr. Stark would be this...distraught.

 

_Don’t fool yourself into thinking he actually cares._

 

His chest feels tight, almost unbearably so.

 

Mr. Stark raises the bottle in his direction as acknowledgment.

 

Wordlessly Peter joins him in the kitchen, sinking to the floor tiredly. He pulls out a carton of cigarettes, absently fiddling with it.

 

“Mind if I smoke?” he asks, avoiding eye contact.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Peter can feel Mr. Stark’s gaze on him as he pulls out a cigarette, his fingers fumbling with the lighter, cursing under his breath when it won’t work.

 

When he gets it lit he brings it to his lips with shaky fingers, taking a deep drag and exhaling smoke through his nose.

 

He’s always been mesmerized by the way the smoke curls around him; always moving and changing before seemingly vanishing.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says after a long moment.

 

“Peter-”

 

“No, I mean it. I know you said sorry isn’t enough, but you were right. I was being stupid. Just..really fucking stupid. And…” He takes another long drag, letting the smoke linger between them with a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

 

Mr. Stark lets out a weak, breathy laugh. “Get used to it kid, I’m usually right,” he jokes, but neither of them are feeling particularly whimsical.  
  
Peter smiles for a second, then slumps back, sinking further onto the floor. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling as the ashes drop to the tile floor.

 

“Thank you for caring about me,” Peter says quietly, eyes watering.

 

_How pathetic._

 

Before he can stop tears are streaming down his face, and he can feel Mr. Stark tense up beside him, like he doesn’t know what to do.

 

“I’m just-” his voice cracks, becoming watery. “I’m so angry, _all the time_.”

 

“I know, kid,” Mr. Stark says gently, patting Peter’s shoulder. “I know you are.”

 

Peter laughs brokenly, sobs bubbling out of his chest. “I almost killed my classmate today. I could’ve fucking _killed_ him. I’m just…”

 

He swallows thickly, sniffing back snot. “I feel like the world keeps handing me one _shit pile_ after another and I don’t know how much I can take.”

 

He takes a slow drag from the cigarette with shaky fingers.

 

“What do I do, Mr. Stark?” he asks weakly. “I’m sick of it, I’m sick of being angry and miserable, and feeling so...so alone.”

 

He hears Mr. Stark take a deep breath beside him, coughing lightly at all the smoke.

 

“I don’t have the answer, Pete,” he whispers, “but I’m here to help you figure it out.”

 

Neither of them say anything for a while, Peter smoking cigarette after cigarette and Mr. Stark taking long swigs directly from the bottle.

 

“I made up designs for a new suit for you,” Mr. Stark tells him, his voice beginning to slur as the sun rises.

 

Peter finally looks over at him for the first time that evening, dried mascara tears painting his cheeks. Mr. Stark looks like shit, and he knows he doesn’t look much better.

 

What a pair they make.

 

“What happened to ‘ _I’m taking your suit away forever_?’” Peter asks hesitantly.

 

Mr. Stark just shrugs, taking another swig.

 

“I didn’t really mean that, I was just upset,” he admits. “We both said things we didn’t mean.”

 

Peter nods absently.

 

“So…” he begins, on his last cigarette of the pack and surrounded by ashes littering the kitchen floor. “What modifications are you making?”

 

Peter can see Mr. Stark struggle to form a coherent sentence, eyes looking a little glassy.

 

“Well, it’ll be bulletproof now,” he says slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “Y’know,” his head lolls back and rests against the cabinet, “it’s gonna be the same tech as the new Iron Man suit I’m working on. Nano-tech. I’ll show you the designs later.”

 

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Well, I’ll show you when I’m sober. I may be drunk-”

 

“You don’t say,” Peter interrupts with a shit eating grin.

 

“Hush,” Mr. Stark says, weakly swatting at Peter. “Hush, you. I...I don’t remember what I was gonna say now.”

 

Peter laughs genuinely, and his heart is feeling a little lighter. He feels oddly giddy, knowing his suit will be the same material as Iron Man’s.

 

Like physical proof that he actually gives a shit about him.

 

“Go to bed, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

 

He watches as Mr. Stark struggles to stand, getting up to help steady him.

 

“Tony,” Mr. Stark says as Peter is helping walk him to his bedroom.

 

“What?” Peter asks hesitantly, tilting his head to the side like a puppy.

 

“Call me Tony,” Mr. Stark repeats, forcing Peter to stop and look him in the eye.

 

Early morning light is filtering through half opened blinds, painting the room in a golden hue. A new day, and instead of dreading it, the promise of the future fills Peter with hope.

 

“Alright...Tony,” he says softly, heart warming at the fond look he receives.

 

When they reach the master bedroom, Mr. Stark stops them in the doorway, pulling Peter into a hug.

 

No, he’s _Tony_ now, not Mr. Stark.

 

The man smells so heavily of booze and clearly hasn’t showered in days, but it’s everything Peter needs in that moment.

 

He feels truly _safe_ , for the first time since May died.

 

“Get some sleep, kid,” Tony says against his hair, and Peter nods into his chest.

 

-

 

Peter wakes up late in the afternoon, feeling better rested than he has in ages, content and comfortable in the plush bed of Captain America’s old room.

 

Peter makes his way to the kitchen, finding Tony already awake.

 

This time, the silence between them is comfortable, both drinking coffee as music plays quietly.

 

“I want to do better,” Peter says, wearing boxers and an old _ACDC_ shirt that belongs to Tony.

 

“Yeah, me too kid.”

 

 

 


	2. making strides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're making steps towards self improvement, but no one ever said it'd be easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this au has become a sort of mix of the MCU and early spiderman comics, so there's some references to stuff that happened in issues of the amazing spiderman published in like, 1963
> 
> also note that peter never knew uncle ben, he's lived with just may since his parents died. he only knows about ben from photographs and may's stories

Peter climbs in through an unlocked window unannounced, as per usual since that night in the kitchen, quietly slipping into the lab while Tony is working.

 

“What’re you ordering for lunch?” Peter asks loudly to announce his presence.

 

“Why hello Peter, I’m doing great this afternoon, thanks for asking,” Tony quips, not looking up from his work. “You skipping class again?”

 

Peter pulls off his mask, smelling like the cigarette he was just smoking on the roof. 

 

“Yeah, I’d rather be here,” he says simply. 

 

Tony waves at him dismissively. “Whatever kid, you know the drill. Go shower, towels-”

 

“In the closet, clean clothes in the dresser,” Peter recites. “Don’t come back ‘til I’m not reeking of smoke and sweat. I got it, don’t worry.”

 

F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets him as he climbs the staircase to the penthouse.

 

_ “Good afternoon, Peter. Boss made some changes to your bedroom." _

 

He’s too confused to argue that  _ it’s not really my room, _ but he understands as soon as he walks through the doorway.

 

He was here yesterday, and there definitely weren’t posters on the walls or trinkets laying around. 

 

“Um.”

 

“ _ Boss hacked your social media to find your current interests.” _

 

Peter just nods, because  _ of course he did _ .

 

Out of curiosity he opens the dresser and finds brand new clothes instead of Cap’s old stuff. He just blinks and closes the drawer. 

 

Even the bathroom is stocked with new things; cherry scented soaps and childish Spiderman towels, along with a fluffy Iron Man bathrobe.

 

A little odd, and  _ definitely _ eccentric, but he chooses not to overthink it; though a voice in the back of his head is telling him that Tony might be his sugar daddy now.

 

He returns to the lab with damp hair, a clean Ramones shirt, and fresh eyeliner.

 

“Petey, how do you like your new room?” Tony asks him, shouting over the loud music.

 

_ What if the Avengers come back, _ is the first thought, but realizes that they probably never will.

 

“I should probably be upset that you hacked my phone to see my _private_ accounts,” he says instead, “but I like my new stuff so I’ll let it slide.”

 

Tony barks out a laugh, motioning for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn down the music. He’s smiling, but his face falls when he turns and sees the seriousness in Peter’s avoidant gaze.

 

“Kid?”

 

“...what did you do with Cap’s stuff? And the other Avengers…”

 

Tony sighs, waving Peter closer.

 

“I didn’t incinerate anything if that’s what you think. I just figured it was time I clean out their things, so I put ‘em in storage.”

 

Peter’s quiet for a long moment, not even daring to pop a bubble.

 

“They’re really not coming back, are they?”

 

Tony shakes his head solemnly. “No, I don’t think so. Not unless aliens threaten the planet or something. But...I’ve got you here now, don’t I?”

 

Peter huffs, a humorless grin on his face. “Yeah, right. I’m just a small-time vigilante, I’m nothing like you, or-”

 

“But you’re  _ here _ ,” Tony insists. “And they’re not, and it’s high time I accept that. No point keeping their rooms untouched.”

  
  
Peter lets the conversation drop.

 

A tense silence lingers between them, full of mourning; and yet there’s a hint of acceptance lying beneath the unspoken emotion. Peter can’t really fathom how Tony is able to just...move on like this, but he supposes Tony’s had a lot of practice in accepting loss.

 

He considers how empty the tower is all the time, just Tony by himself now. The vacant spaces of the former Avengers leave a hollow quiet in the penthouse, almost eerie if Peter stops to think about it.

 

And yet it doesn’t  _ feel _ empty, not when Peter and Tony are together.

 

And  _ Peter _ doesn’t feel so empty and hollow when he’s with Tony; his mentor starting to fill in the gap May left behind. 

 

(He thinks maybe it’s about time he clean up May’s old things too, but he’s still not ready to accept that she’s _ gone _ ).

 

“I do like my room,” he says, minutes later, “but you have like...zero chill.”

 

Tony smiles at him, and it’s so kind and warm that it makes Peter’s heart skip a beat.

 

They stay up until dawn working on their own projects and absently chatting about everything and nothing.

 

-

 

“Tony, why is there a teenager laying on the floor?”

 

Peter pops his gum, not even glancing at the stranger that just walked into the lab, whom he guesses is Pepper Potts. 

 

“The  _ teenager _ can hear you,” he says, eyes fixed lazily on the ceiling. He lays on the floor, sprawled out on his back with his arms outstretched at his sides. 

 

Tony pauses his work to look at Pepper.

 

“Pep, meet Peter,” he says, nodding his head towards Peter. “Better known as Spiderman, I think I mentioned I’ve given him lab access.”

 

She glances warily at Peter.

 

“You most certainly did not mention that, and that doesn’t answer why he’s on the floor.”

 

Peter pops his gum again. “I’m being dramatic.”

 

Tony shrugs, “he’s being dramatic,” he repeats as if that answers everything.

 

Peter listens absently while Pepper talks with Tony about business, blowing his bubblegum and letting his eyes trace patterns in the tile ceiling. He could really use a cigarette right now.

 

Once Pepper leaves, Tony begins work again, and there’s something oddly soothing about the sound of tinkering metal echoing through the lab.

 

“Alright kid, talk to me,” Tony says eventually, after Peter’s been motionless on the floor for too long.

 

“I’m thinking.”

 

“Well I guessed that,” Tony replies, setting down his tools to put his attention on Peter. “Quit being a smartass. I thought you were just tired at first, but your silence is frankly alarming.”

 

Peter keeps his eyes transfixed on one little point in the ceiling, blinking slowly.

 

“I think I’m gonna drop out of school.”

 

He’s hesitant to tell Tony the truth; by now he’s not just Mr. Stark, world renowned scientist and Avenger; he’s  _ Tony _ , Peter’s friend. His opinion actually matters.

 

And here Peter keeps telling himself that no one’s opinion matters but his own, but that’s a big fat lie.

 

A moment of complete silence passes between the two, before Tony picks up his tools and starts tinkering around again.

 

“I think that’s fair.”

 

Peter sits up and looks at Tony incredulously. 

 

“What, no lecture? No  _ ‘you should get a college education?’ _ ” he asks, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

 

Tony just shakes his head. 

 

“Kiddo, normally I would encourage education, but I think you’ve already made up your mind.” He glances briefly at Peter, “is this so you can focus on being Spiderman? Or for your job at the Bugle?”

 

Peter huffs, “both, I guess? I just hate school,” he says with a pout. “I  _ love  _ learning, but being stuck inside all day, putting up with shitty people is the fucking  _ worst _ . Besides, we're just being groomed for this capitalist hellscape and working our lives away.”

 

This is what he loves most about Tony; with everyone else in his life he has to watch his mouth, but Tony lets him curse and vent to his heart’s content.

 

But Peter’s already had one meltdown recently and he’s not keen to spill more emotional bullshit anytime soon.

 

Peter jumps to his feet, stretching and rolling his shoulders with an audible crack.

 

“Well that was some fun heart-to-heart, but I think it’s time for a smoke and for Spiderman to go break some bones.”

 

Tony looks up from his work with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“So that’s it? You come here to sulk for a bit and jump back out again? I thought you already went on patrol.”

 

Peter picks ups his too big leather jacket, faded and covered in patches and buttons, and puts it on as he’s already turning to leave. 

 

“Don’t get in too much trouble, kid,” Tony teases.

 

Peter looks at Tony over his shoulder. sticking his tongue out and flipping a middle finger, painted Iron Man red instead of his usual black.

 

“Fuck off, old man,” he snarls, but his voice doesn’t have its usual bite.

 

“You know, it’s not really a heart-to-heart unless I’m sharing too,” Tony calls after him, smile audible in his voice. 

 

-

 

Peter struts through the Jameson Publishing building in his high heels, chewing bubble gum as he brushes past the hustle and bustle of  _ The Daily Bugle’s _ department. It’s hectic as usual, irritatingly loud with a mix of voices, hurried footsteps, and typing and ringing phones. 

 

“Jameson,” he greets, uncaring that he’s interrupting a meeting in Jameson’s office. 

 

“Parker!” the man snaps. “Can’t you see I’m-”

 

“I’ve got pictures for you,” Peter deadpans. He pops a bubble with his gum. “Spiderman in action and all that.” He tosses Jameson a thumb drive, snickering as the man fumbles to catch it.

 

Jameson’s other visitor stands tensely to the side, eyeing Peter carefully.

 

“Now if I could get my paycheck…” Peter drawls, looking expectant.

 

Jameson just waves him away with a dismissive hand. “Yes, you’ll get your payment. Now get out of my office.”

 

He pauses to glower at Peter with narrowed eyes, sneering at Peter’s eyeliner.

 

“And I thought I told you to keep that crap off your face in my building.”

 

Peter pops his gum.

 

“At least I don’t look like Charlie Chaplin on cocaine,” he sasses back, smirking at how red Jameson’t face turns.

 

Man, seeing Jameson riled up is satisfying.

 

“That’s it!” He snaps, slamming his hands down on his desk. “I’m sick of your attitude, Parker. You’re fired!”

 

The other man in the room flinches. 

 

There's a tense moment of silence, and Peter can feel Jameson's guest hold his breath, waiting for Peter to react.

 

Peter scowls at Jameson, feeling his eye twitch. “You can’t fire me," he says slowly, voice low and dangerous. "I work  _ freelance _ .” But he holds his hands up in mock defeat. “But whatever, no more Spiderman pics for you.”

 

Peter struts out of the room with a dramatic eye roll, relishing in the shocked silence of his co-workers.

 

And:  _ 3...2...1… _

 

“I want more pictures by Monday!" Jameson shouts over the office buzz. "They better be good, Parker!”

 

Ha. _How predictable_ , he thinks, a satisfied smile on his face as he makes his way outside, everyone returning to their work as if nothing happened.

 

Peter leans back against the building, reaching into his jacket pocket for his box of cigs. He lights one up and stares at the clouds overhead, inhaling the smoke deeply. He enjoys the abundant sounds of the city, oddly comforted in its familiarity. Despite the mixing chaos of shouting and honking cars and sirens, Peter finds himself feeling at peace.

 

Of course it doesn't last for long.

 

“Peter!” he hears Jameson’s assistant shout, followed by clacking heels. 

 

He glances over at her, nodding with a mock salute.

 

_ God _ , he can’t stand this girl.

 

“Hey, Betty,” he says, making sure his disinterest is obvious in his tone.

 

She blushes lightly and nods. “Hi Peter. I’ve got your thumb drive here,” she says, holding it out to him. 

 

He hates the starry eyes she makes at him when their hands brush. 

 

She lingers even after he pockets the thumb drive, and he raises an eyebrow at her, blowing smoke away from her direction. “You want something?”

 

She bites her lip, stubbornly maintaining eye contact.

 

“Yeah, um...I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee with me when I get off my shift?”

 

Peter lets out a puff of smoke, and she shifts her weight as Peter’s silence drags on.

 

“You mean...like a date?” he says eventually. 

 

Betty nods, curls bouncing with the movement.

 

_ Is she blind? _

 

Peter can’t help but snort, almost choking on the smoke. 

 

“What?” Betty demands, looking hurt. “What’s so funny?”

 

Peter laughs, taking a moment to wipe away a fake tear. “You honestly think I’m straight? Sweetie, I’m wearing eyeliner and fucking _heels_. I thought I was being obvious that I’m a certified twink.”

 

Suddenly, Betty steps up to him, glaring up at Peter with her hands on her hips. “You could have just said no, you don’t need to laugh at me!”

 

Peter just blows smoke in her face, making her scowl and back away.

 

She coughs, waving his hand in front of her face to dispel the smoke. "Ugh, Peter Parker, you are the biggest ass I’ve ever met!" She snaps, making challenging eye contact. "I hope you fucking choke on those cigarettes!”

 

As she storms back in the building he hears her mutter  _ “what on Earth did I see in Peter, fucking jackass…” _

 

Okay, so maybe he feels a little guilty for being mean, but whatever; his chest feels a little tight the way it always does when he talks without fucking thinking first.

 

“I really need to work on thinking before I say shit,” he mutters to himself.

 

He glances down at the cigarette in his hands, finding the stick down to the orange filter already.

 

First, he thinks that today’s going to be another  _ smoke an entire pack _ kind of day.

 

Then, he decides he should quit. 

 

-

 

“You’ve gotta stop picking fights,” Tony tells him, tinkering with Peter’s suit.

 

Again.

 

This time he wasn’t shot, and he didn’t need saving; but challenging the Human Torch to a fight was not a great idea, especially considering his main rationale was  _ he’s stupid and pretentious and I hate him. _

 

His bruises ache under his torn up clothes, evidence of his sheer dumbassery, but they'll heal quickly.

 

“I don’t need another  _ lecture _ ,” Peter argues from his perch on his table, aggressively chewing bubble gum and bouncing his leg restlessly. He fidgets aimlessly with the trinkets he’s left here after he claimed this spot.

 

“Hey, cut the attitude,” Tony snaps. “I’m trying to help.”

 

Tony sighs, putting down his tool and leaning back in his chair, giving Peter a pointed look. 

 

“Maybe I could put an AI in your suit to be your impulse control. You know, like the angel on your shoulder, except it’s an actual voice telling you not to be an idiot.”

 

Peter’s free hand reaches for the pocket in his leather jacket, going for a pack of cigs out of habit.

 

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Tony tells him. “But maybe you shouldn’t go out as Spiderman until you get through withdrawal.”

 

Peter jolts upright, heart skipping a beat.

 

“But that’ll take forever!” he exclaims, accidentally crushing the stupid little Yoda figurine in his hand into a sad lump. He has the urge to throw it across the room; maybe he can test if bulletproof glass holds up to spider strength and a broken plastic toy. 

 

“Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Tony calls out to the room. “How long does cigarette withdrawal last?”

 

“ _ On average, nicotine withdrawal peaks at three to five days, but waning symptoms can persist up to a month, possibly longer.” _

 

Tony gestures vaguely at the room. “You heard the gal, Petey. Not forever.”

 

Peter lets the toy drop to the floor, and he cringes at the  _ clang _ as it hits the tile. Everything is  _ so loud _ .

 

“Fri, can you dim the lights?” Peter asks abruptly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, “and turn down Tony’s music.”

 

Tony looks at him worriedly, carefully approaching Peter. 

 

Peter doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Tony takes them in his own, pulling them down from his face.

 

His eyeliner is smudged now, racoon-like around his bloodshot eyes.

 

“You can do this, Peter,” Tony tells him gently. “One day at a time, alright? You quit  _ two days  _ ago. Make it through the next three and it’ll get easier.”

 

Peter can only bring himself to nod.

 

“Stay for a while,” Tony adds. “So you don’t get yourself in trouble.”

 

Peter wants to argue that he doesn’t need a babysitter, but he sees the look of pure concern, of  _ fondness _ , that any argument dies on his tongue. 

 

“Thanks, Tony,” he says instead.

 

-

 

Tony does make him an AI.

 

Peter fondly names her Karen, and the first thing he does is teach her about punk subculture and memes. 

 

He found a way to connect her to his phone, so he absently chats with her as he lays on a little web hammock he made in Tony’s living room, listening to her through headphones so he has some semblance of privacy.

 

He knows Tony is more than capable of listening in anyways, but he trusts that Tony will let him be.

 

_ “I thought the term ‘yeet’ was meant to accompany throwing something, why did you shout it as you swung through a window?” _

 

Peter cracks a lopsided smile. 

 

“Well I was throwing  _ myself _ ,” he explains to Karen, swinging back and forth restlessly. 

 

He still feels like garbage. His nerves are shot, his head is pounding, and he hasn’t slept in two days. His spidey senses are going haywire, but there’s no danger; not here in Avengers tower at ass o’clock in the morning.

 

Not to mention the craving to smoke an entire fucking pack of cigarettes.

 

Peter’s fingers shake where they’re clutching a worn out teddy bear to his chest.

 

(He’s only mildly embarrassed that it’s dressed as  _ Iron Man _ and his former fanboy status has been revealed).

 

“Hey Karen, do you think-”

 

Suddenly there’s a faint  _ snap _ as his hammock begins to disintegrate, and Peter lets out a undignified yelp as he tumbles to the floor.

 

Tony snickers from his spot on the couch.

 

_ “Are you alright Peter?” _ Karen asks. 

 

Peter pouts, glaring at the ceiling, pathetically sprawled on the sad remains of his web.

 

“Peachy,” he drawls sarcastically.

 

Yeah, he really wants a cigarette.

 

Reluctantly he sits up, pulling out his earbuds as he glances over at Tony. He can tell Tony is trying to hide a smile.

 

_ Asshole. _

 

Mentally, he makes note that Tony is on his third glass of wine, and there’s a lingering concern in the back of his mind, that  _ maybe _ Tony should slow down a little.

 

“Gimme,” he demands, making grabby hands. 

 

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “Gotta be more specific,” he replies simply.

 

“Some wine. Please.”

 

Tony hums, thinking it over.

 

“You know, I would. But I think that would be very irresponsible of me.”

 

Peter groans, standing up and making his way to the couch, plopping himself down next to Tony.

 

“Please?” he says, giving his best puppy dog eyes that always made May melt.

 

It’s not very convincing, not with his dark eye bags.

 

“Nah. See, I’m trying this whole  _ responsible adult _ thing lately. Pretty sure that doesn’t involve giving alcohol to depressed teenagers.”

 

Peter drops the pleading look, face suddenly sullen and irritated, eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

 

“I say you stay awake until you crash,” Tony suggests halfheartedly, “it’s what I do when I can’t sleep.”

 

Peter looks at him incredulously, prompting Tony to shrug.

 

“Hey, I know it’s not a great idea but it’s the best I’ve got, aside from giving you some Ambien I’ve still got stashed away somewhere.”

 

Peter sinks back into the couch.

 

“If it makes you feel any better I’ll stay up with you until you fall asleep, so you’ve got someone else here besides Karen.”

 

Peter bites his lip, arms tightening around his bear.

 

“Why are you so dedicated to looking after me? I mean, why do you even care? I’m just a dumbass kid.”

 

Tony thinks it over.

 

“I want to help you,” he eventually says.

 

He doesn’t elaborate, and Peter doesn’t ask him to. 

 

He feels a twinge of bitterness at being a fucking  _ charity case _ , but another part of him is itching to latch onto Tony and never let go.

 

He’s become far more attached than he ever wanted to, addicted to the attention Tony always gives him. He almost craves it as much as his cigarettes.

 

He just can’t decide if he wants Tony to be his dad or his  _ daddy _ .

 

_ Why not both _ , his mind supplies, and the thought makes him feel like he should go to confession. Ask a holy Father for forgiveness.

 

_ Ask daddy for forgiveness, _ he thinks, and he feels a spark of arousal at the thought of apologizing to Tony on his knees for being  _ naughty. _

 

Fuck.

 

But there’s something else; powerful emotion swelling in his chest, feeling warm and tight and anxious all at once. He feels cherished and taken care of, and it scares him.

 

He realizes then and there that he’s in love, cradling the teddy bear protectively.

 

_ Way to go, Parker. Fall for a man bound to leave you like everyone else. _

 

Tony wraps an arm around him, letting Peter rest his head on his shoulder, and Peter knows he’s absolutely doomed.

 

-

 

Peter tries to ignore his newfound feelings.

 

He can’t.

 

After his  _ revelation _ he’s suddenly seeing Tony’s actions in a new light, and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

 

Is Tony just being paternal? How would Peter know, he hasn’t had a father figure since he was five. Or maybe Tony is just being a friend, but he can’t be sure.

 

He knows Tony cares about him somehow, that much is obvious.

 

But he can’t let himself even  _ consider _ that Tony might love him the way Peter wants him to; that the protectiveness and casual touch mean anything more than platonic affection.

 

And yet; the thought just won’t  _ go away. _

 

And neither will the stupid  _ giddiness _ he feels around Tony, always lingering underneath his skin despite all the anxiety and uncertainty. 

 

At least he can use withdrawal as an excuse for his sudden odd, avoidant behavior. 

 

The rest of week passes by without incident, excluding the fluttering in Peter’s chest every time he’s in a room with Tony, and the sheer  _ ache _ of unrequited pining.

 

“I think you deserve a reward-” Tony tells him abruptly, exactly a week after he quit smoking. 

 

_ Oh, fuck me. _

 

“-For getting through the hardest part of withdrawal. I’m proud of you.”

 

Peter swallows thickly, a spark of arousal jolting through him.

 

Tony pulls Peter close, a steady hand on his shoulder as he leads Peter into the living room, where there’s a gift bag waiting for him.

 

It’s Spider-man themed.

 

Tony’s touch remains as Peter hesitantly reaches out for the cheap gift bag, and the prolonged contact brings a flush to his cheeks.

 

There’s makeup, he finds when he slowly pulls away the red tissue paper.

 

Really  _ nice  _ makeup; even lip stain and an expansive eye shadow palette.

 

“These should hold up better during your patrols, so you won’t need to constantly reapply,” Tony explains.

 

His first thought is dressing up prettily for Tony, like  _ Daddy’s good little boy.  _

 

His second thought is a conversation they had a while back:  _ “I used to wear May’s lipstick sometimes, but I stopped when I became Spider Man. Kept getting smudged under the mask and I ended up looking like a sad clown.” _

 

“You remembered,” Peter says, awed. “I didn’t think you were even paying attention.”

 

Tony gives his shoulder a light squeeze, “I always pay attention to you.”

 

The admission sends warmth through Peter’s entire being, and he inhales a sharp breath.

 

He abruptly pulls himself away, nervously meeting Tony’s eyes.

 

“Do you not like it?” Tony asks, voice calm but Peter can hear underlying panic.

 

He just shakes his head quickly to cut Tony off.

 

“No it’s...it’s perfect,” he stammers. “It’s perfect. I’m just gonna try some on.”

 

He makes a hasty retreat before he can hear Tony’s reply, sinking back against the door of his bedroom, trying to calm his racing heart.

 

_ Don’t think too much of it _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s not what you think. _

 

He doesn’t move for a while, replaying Tony’s words in his head over and over.

 

_ I’m proud of you. _

 

_ I always pay attention to you. _

 

He chews on his lip, and he wants to cry like the fucking  _ crybaby _ he is.

 

He shakes his head as if the movement can banish the wave of insecurities, making his way to the vanity across the room.

 

He’s hesitant as he pulls out the lip stain; cherry red liquid, glossy and shimmery on the spongey applicator. It reminds him of the Iron Man suit.

 

He applies it slowly, carefully painting the color over his lips and imagining leaving red marks on Tony’s cheeks and neck.

 

He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror. His lips look plump and full with the color, beautifully feminine and kissable, but he’s still so devastatingly  _ masculine _ ; all sharp lines and defined muscle.

 

Yet he feels so  _ pretty _ and he loves it.

 

“What am i doing?” he whispers to himself in the mirror. 

 

 _Trying to seduce Tony_ , he thinks.

 

He sighs, sharply turning away from his reflection.

 

_ Bad idea, Parker. He won’t want you. _

 

It takes a moment for him to work up the nerve to leave the room, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders. His steps are quiet and light on his bare feet as he makes his way to living room again, meeting Tony’s eyes under his eyelashes; almost submissively.

 

“ _ Wow,” _ he hears Tony mutter, and it brings a blush to his cheeks.

 

Tony clears his throat. “You like it?” he asks Peter.

  
Peter just nods.

 

“Good,” Tony tells him. “That’s good.”

 

There’s a moment of awkward silence.

 

“Wanna head to the lab with me? I want your opinion on a new prototype.”

 

“Do you ever need to ask?” Peter replies with a little smile. 

 

He mentally berates himself for acting like a character in a shitty rom-com.

 

-

 

Peter’s feeling good.

 

Genuinely happy kind of good.

 

Tony’s let him stay in the tower for a couple more days, even though the withdrawal symptoms have passed (with the exception of cravings).

 

_ You’re an impulsive little shit, _ Tony had said,  _ I don’t want you going out and buying more cigarettes or something. _

 

Which is honestly fair.

 

He’s taken to wearing the new lip stain every day, going on frequent coffee runs as an excuse to show it off.

 

He likes to pretend that the red on his lips and nails are a sort of brand; an indication of belonging to Tony that he wears with pride.

 

_ A little pathetic, _ he thinks to himself.

 

But no matter; he feels fucking  _ invincible _ today, finally back on patrol with Karen speaking in his ear. 

 

He’d forgotten how good it feels to be swinging through the city, to feel that burst of adrenaline with every acrobatic stunt.

 

And he’d forgotten how good it feels to really  _ help _ people for the sake of doing so. 

 

“You know, the past me would have knocked out your teeth,” he tells a criminal solemnly with a serious nod, making sure he’s properly webbed. “Sorry I broke your hand though.”

 

Later he finds himself sitting on a rooftop across the street watching cops and newscasters flitter around, swinging his feet and blowing bubble gum with his mask covering only the top half of his face.

 

“ _ Peter, you have an incoming call from Tony Stark,”  _ Karen informs him.

 

Peter grins, bouncing in his spot and excitedly yelling, “put him on!” 

 

(Not that he has the authority to refuse a call from Tony anyways).

 

“ _ Peter- _ ”

 

“Did you see me on the news?!”

 

Tony laughs, and Peter can imagine the twinkle in his eyes and that fond look he always give him when he’s amused.

 

_ “Yeah, I sure did kiddo. Good job today, how’s the suit working for you?” _

 

Peter throws up his arms in excitement even though Tony can’t see him. “It’s so amazing! Bullets bounced right off like it was nothing! I love it so much, Tony!”

 

Peter’s absolutely beaming, leaping up to his feet. “Damn, I’d love to see Jameson try to spin this to look bad. I just stopped a heist at the fucking Met! Granted the culture surrounding fine art is severely flawed and pretentious, but I’m pretty damn proud of myself right now!”

 

“ _ And no one got hurt,”  _ Tony adds, pride in his voice. 

 

_ I made Tony proud, _ Peter thinks gleefully. 

 

“ _ Anyways, I was calling to see if you wanna grab coffee. Pepper’s kicking me out of the lab to get some fresh air.” _

 

Peter thinks back to Betty asking him out for coffee, but he knows  _ this _ isn’t meant to be a date.

 

“Understandably so,” he quips, nodding to himself. “Meet you at Starbucks by the tower?”

 

“ _ See you there, Petey,”  _ Tony replies before abruptly hanging up.

 

With a tap to the band on his wrist, the mask falls back over his face before he takes a running leap off the building, catching himself with a web at the last second. 

 

He swings his way across Manhattan, dropping into a thin alleyway and letting the suit retract into the sleek watch on his wrist.

 

It’s a little chilly in the autumn breeze without his signature jacket, but he welcomes the cool air and lets it calm his nerves. 

 

_ It’s not a date, _ he has to remind himself.

 

Tony is already inside when Peter walks in, sitting at a table with designer sunglasses and an MIT sweatshirt with the hoodie over his head.

 

Notably, he has  _ two _ cups of coffee in front of him.

 

Peter smiles and makes his way over, plopping down in a seat across from Tony.

 

“Very discreet,” Peter comments. “You’re  _ totally _ unrecognizable right now.”

 

Tony cracks a smile, tilting his head to look at Peter over the rim of his sunglasses and giving him a wink, before straightening back in his seat.

 

Tony slides an iced coffee across the table to Peter, Peter’s usual order with an unholy amount of flavor shots and creamer. 

 

“Makeup looks good,” Tony comments, taking a sip of his own coffee. 

 

Peter’s cheeks flush and he feels his ears grow hot. “Thanks,” he says softly, feeling elated from the compliment. He averts his eyes, biting his lip bashfully. “I’m uh...gonna grab more uh...creamer. Creamer, yeah…” he stammers out as a poor excuse to get away from that stupidly fond look on Tony’s face.

 

Looks like running away is becoming a thing for him.

 

-

 

Peter arrives home late, calling out his arrival to an empty apartment. With a sigh, he takes off his leather jacket and hangs it up on the coat stand by the door next to May’s old jackets.  

 

It’s odd being back in this apartment; he’d forgotten how quiet it is on his own.

 

(An unhelpful part of his mind is telling him to just move in with Tony, but he can’t bear to let go of this place just yet; he knows he’ll need to move out eventually when his parents’ trust fund runs out, but he tries not to think about that).

 

He plops himself down on his usual spot on the couch, pulling out a stick of bubble gum from his back pocket.

 

He can feel the ghost of May’s presence in every corner of the apartment; can still imagine her on her side of the couch, chattering about something she heard on the news.

 

The living room still smells like her perfume, but its faded and mixing unpleasantly with stale cigarette smoke.

 

He breathes a heavy sigh and gets up to open a window.

 

_ Oh, Peter, why would ever take up that filthy habit, _ the May in his head tells him as the cool evening breeze washes over him.  _ I always hated when Ben smoked. _

 

His fingers grip the windowsill, the ghost of May’s touch lingering on his shoulder.

 

_ Peter, sweetie, are you alright? You’ve been working so much lately... _

 

He turns around and May vanishes, leaving him alone in an empty apartment. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one. 

 

He keeps the window open as wide as it can go, going around and opening all the others to air out the apartment.

 

Finally; he makes a decision and gets to work.

 

Looking around, he sees the remnants May left behind. Her favorite mug sits in front of an unused canister of tea, year old magazines on the kitchen table, and her keys still by the front door in the little antique dish.

 

He turns on the radio to May’s favorite 80s station and lights her eucalyptus aromatherapy candles, absently humming along as he sets about placing her things in cardboard boxes.

 

He leaves the photographs and antique trinkets where they are.

 

It’s around two in the morning when his phone goes off with the ringtone Tony set for himself, screen lighting up with some dorky selfie they took together.

 

_ ‘Cause I shoot to thrill, and i’m ready to kill- _

 

“Hey Tony,” he says when he picks up, “why’re you awake-”

 

“ _ Petey pie,”  _ Tony slurs. “ _ Sweetheart. Darling- _ ”

 

Peter’s heart drops, concern blooming in his chest. 

 

“Tony, are you drunk?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. “Where are you, please tell me you’re in the penthouse.”

 

He’s already grabbing his jacket and keys, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he locks the front door behind him.

 

“ _ Yep,”  _ Tony drawls, popping the ‘p’. Peter can practically hear him swaying back and forth. “ _ Petey pie, my Petey pie” _ Tony repeats in a sing-song voice with a breathy laugh.

 

“Tony,” Peter interrupts to get his attention. “Where are you? I’m on my way but I need to know-”

 

He hears Tony scoff. “ _ The tower, where else? _ ” he answers sarcastically.

 

Peter is tempted to swing his way to Manhattan, but he wants to keep Tony on the line so he hops on the subway as soon as he can, listening to Tony ramble in his drunken stupor.

 

“ _ Heyyyy, what if- what if I give your suit extra limbs,” _ Tony says slowly, like he’s trying extra hard to speak clearly. “ _ So, that way, you’ll have...have EIGHT limbs. Like- like an actual ffffuckin’ spider. How cool would that be?”  _

 

Peter nods as if Tony can see him, anxiously tapping his foot on the subway floor with an audible  _ clack clack clack _ .

 

“ _ But, but...I gotta...gots’ta make it so you can use it, um, telepathically. Y’know, from your...your brain. Brrrain signals. Sig-nal.” _

 

Peter just hums along, occasionally offering his thoughts to keep Tony engaged.

 

When he’s at the tower he walks around to the back security entrance, using the key Tony gave him.

 

“Alright, I’m here,” he says, interrupting whatever incoherent rant Tony was beginning. “Hold on for a hot minute, I’m getting in the elevator now-”

 

“ _ Wwwwait, you- you actually came?” Tony asks shakily. “I didn’t think you’d-” _

 

“Of course I came, Tony,” Peter tells him gently. “I’m gonna hang up now-”

 

_ “You asht-actually came,” _ he repeats.

 

“I’m hanging up now,” Peter interrupts, ending the call before Tony can say anything else.

 

He sighs, running a hand through messy, oily hair.

 

_ “Hello, Peter,” _ F.R.I.D.A.Y. says as soon as he enters the elevator.  _ “Boss is in the living room laying on the floor.” _

 

Peter’s phone buzzes as he receives a text.

 

_ Tony Skank: wwhy ddd yoi hang ip _ , it reads. 

 

Peter doesn’t reply, the elevator opening with a ding a moment later.

 

He walks briskly into the penthouse, taking off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly along with his keys and phone on the nearest table. 

 

“Tony?” he calls out to announce his presence. “Tony, I’m here.”

 

Tony makes a sad sight, sprawled on the floor with an empty wine bottle next to him. He looks like shit; disheveled, eye bags prominent and clothes messy and wrinkled, hair sticking up from running his fingers through it obsessively.

 

“Peteerrr,” Tony slurs, dopey smile spreading on his face at seeing Peter approaching him. “My favorite person, just who I wanted to see.”

 

Peter drops to his knees, helping Tony sit up and propping him up against the couch. 

 

He spots another empty wine bottle rolling under the coffee table. 

 

“Hey,” he says softly, “I’m gonna get you some water and I’ll be right back.”

 

Returning a moment later with a glass of cold tap water, Peter has to help keep Tony’s head steady, hand cradling the back of his skull as he holds the water glass to his lips.

 

“Missed you,” Tony whispers raggedly after downing the whole glass, head lolling back.

 

“I was only gone for a few hours,” Peter points out.

 

“I knowww, I  _ know _ . It’s ssoo much  _ better _ when you’re here,” he says, sadness filling his face. “Less...alonely.”

 

Peter looks at Tony sympathetically.

 

He understands how that feels.

 

“Alright big guy, let’s get you to bed,” he says, picking Tony up effortlessly and carrying him to his bedroom, gently placing him on the bed.

 

“Don’t go,” Tony says weakly, reaching out to grasp Peter’s shirt.

 

“I’m not,” Peter whispers, crawling onto the bed beside him, soothingly caressing his cheek.

 

Impulsively, he leans down to press a soft kiss to Tony’s forehead, like May used to do when Peter was sick.

 

“I love you, Peter,” Tony says reverently, voice startlingly sober and looking at Peter like he hung the fucking stars in the sky.

 

Looking like he’s ready to  _ worship _ him.

 

Peter swallows thickly, his chest suddenly feeling tight. 

 

_ Don’t fool yourself into thinking he actually cares _ , the dumbass in the back of his head tells him.

 

Tony falls asleep before Peter can say anything.

 

-

 

Peter is in the kitchen when Tony wakes, sipping coffee as he hears Tony stir and sit up with a pained groan, sheets rustling and headboard creaking.

 

He cringes when he hears Tony throwing up in the bathroom.

 

Slowly, Tony makes his way into the kitchen in bare feet, clad in only a pair of boxers and a blanket draped around his shoulders like a cloak.

 

He looks terrible, and Peter’s sure he feels even worse.

 

Peter nods towards the kitchen table. “Left a glass of water and meds there for you.”

 

Tony nods weakly, shuddering at the screech of the chair against the floor before collapsing onto it. 

 

An analog clock ticks in the living room, and rain gently hits the windows with a quiet  _ plip plop. _ There’s a faint buzz of the dimmed fluorescent lights that only Peter can hear, light casting delicate shadows over Tony’s exhausted face.

 

“Sorry,” Tony croaks, glassy eyes fixed on the solid mahogany table.

 

“Don’t,” Peter says quietly, careful or Tony’s sensitive, hungover ears. “Don’t apologize.”

 

Tony glances at him, and Peter feels oddly vulnerable.

 

“Just thank me,” Peter adds, hiding behind the rim of the coffee mug. 

 

Tony says nothing; Peter doesn’t offer anything.

 

Silently, he places a mug of coffee in front of Tony, with a couple spoonfuls of sugar and Tony’s favorite gourmet chocolate creamer.

 

“How much did I drink last night?” Tony asks abruptly.

 

“A lot.”

 

Peter doesn’t miss the defeated look in Tony’s eyes.

 

“You drank a whole lot. Even more than...than that night in the kitchen. I um…already cleaned up. After you fell asleep. There’s a red wine stain on the carpet that I couldn’t get out.”

 

Tony nods along; Peter wonders what he’s thinking.

 

“...thank you,” Tony murmurs.

 

There’s an awkward silence lingering between them; so unlike the comfortable atmosphere between them from the past week of Peter staying in the tower. 

 

“You called me sweetheart,” Peter says eventually, sitting on the marble countertop next to the coffee maker. 

 

“Did I?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

He kicks his feet mindlessly, running his finger along the rim of the now empty coffee mug.

 

“Darling too,” he adds. “ And you said…”

 

Tony looks at him expectantly, and Peter can’t meet his eyes.

 

“Nevermind,” he says, shaking his head.

 

Tony leans towards him, eyes squinted under the lights. “Peter, what did I say?”

 

Peter chews his lip, feeling unsure and exposed.

 

“You said you love me,” he whispers, barely audible.

 

He hears Tony swallow, the coffee mug clinking as he puts it on the table.

 

“Oh,” Tony murmurs.

 

Neither say anything for a few moments.

 

“I’m not-” Peter stammers, “-I don’t know-”

 

“I don’t expect you to,” Tony interrupts. “I don’t...you don’t need to do anything, Peter. I don’t need you to love me back or anything. I’m a big boy, I can handle it. Nothing has to change.”

 

He clears his throat. “Well not...not unless you want it to,” he adds. “If you want to leave I understand.”

 

Peter looks at Tony, feeling confused and unsure and happy all at the same time. 

 

“What if I do? Love you, I mean.”

 

Tony meets his eyes, surprise evident on his face. He looks hopeful.

 

“Well, in that case...nothing has to change either,” he says cautiously. “You’re in charge here...sweetheart.” He fumbles awkwardly over the pet name, like he’s testing if it’s welcome.

 

It is.

 

“Nothing happens unless you want it to,” Tony repeats. 

 

Peter hops off the counter, putting his mug in the sink. 

 

He walks up to Tony, placing a hand on his shoulder and slowly drawing it up to his cheek, tracing over his prominent collarbone and sharp jawline. He leans down and presses a soft kiss near the corner of Tony’s mouth, heart skipping a beat at the feeling of the beard under his lips and the hitched breath Tony takes. 

 

“Go shower,” he whispers, a smile unwittingly pulling at his lips. “You smell.”

 

“Thank you, darling,” Tony whispers back, as if afraid of shattering the suddenly tender atmosphere.

 

Peter’s not sure what he’s thanking him for. 

 

Tony stands, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of Peter’s curly hair out of his face. “I love you.”

 

Peter smiles mischievously, eyes full of mirth.

 

“I know,” he says, like the little shit he is.

 

He knows Tony picks up on the  _ I love you too _ left unspoken.

 

-

 

Peter chews his bubble gum, cherry red lip stain perfectly in place still, sitting draped casually in his chair. 

 

He hears the ding of the elevator, followed by Pepper calling out, “Mr. Parker?”

 

“In the kitchen,” he replies, sitting up straighter as she walks in the room.

 

Her heels clack loudly against the tile floor.

 

“Why did you call me here-” she begins, but pauses at the sight of several bottles of alcohol on the table, “-what is this?”

 

There’s something about Pepper that Peter dislikes, and he can’t quite put a word to it. She’s kind enough, very kind in fact.

 

It’s how  _ perfect _ she is, he thinks.

 

She’s so polished and put together that it honestly pisses him off a little; in her designer pant suits and stilettos, always talking business.

 

_ Ugh _ .

 

“I scoured the penthouse for every bottle of alcohol Tony has,” Peter tells her seriously.

 

Pepper nods along for him to continue.

 

“I want you to take them. It’d be a waste to dump it all down the drain, so keep it, give it to friends, whatever. But get it out of the penthouse.”

 

Pepper gives him an odd look he can’t decipher. 

 

“What?” he snaps. “Don’t just look at me, are you gonna help or not?”

 

Pepper holds her hands up appeasingly. “Don’t get mad at me, I’m just surprised. Are you forcing him to quit?”

 

Peter deflates a little, shaking his head.

 

“I know he wants to, but it’s hard when he has all this lying around everywhere. Too tempting.”

 

It’s a moment before either of them speak.

 

“What is Tony to you?” Pepper asks suddenly, and Peter meets her eyes.

 

Peter stares her dead in the eye, popping his gum.

 

“Are you trying to ask me what my intentions are?” he asks sarcastically with a raised eyebrow.

 

Pepper is visibly unamused.

 

“Tony is my friend,” she tells with with conviction. “What we had just...didn’t work out, but he’s still dear to me. I need you to be sure that this is what you really want.”

 

Peter glares coldly, voice sharp as daggers.

 

“I’m not just going to use him for his money and toss him aside!” Peter snaps, standing up so abruptly that his chair falls back. “I have lost  _ everyone _ I’ve ever cared about. I would  _ kill myself _ before I leave Tony! Because I don’t think I could live through losing him too.”

 

Peter looks away, fists clenched. His agitation is practically palpable.

 

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He can’t believe he just admitted this out loud, and to Pepper of all people. It’s unlike him, he thinks, since when has he been so open about his stupid  _ feelings. _

 

“I’m not a gold digger,” he adds when met with silence.

 

He can’t bring himself to look at Pepper, because he knows he’s going to find pity on her face and he can’t stand that.

 

“Thank you for caring about him,” she says softly. “But please tread carefully.”

 

He keeps his jaw clenched tight so he doesn’t open his mouth and say something else stupid, counting back from ten in his head repeatedly. 

 

_ I don’t need your approval _ , he wants to say, but he has to admit that he’s glad he has it.

 

“I love him,” Peter says seriously after a moment of intense silence, finally dropping the shitty attitude. “I love him  _ so much _ .”

 

Pepper smiles sadly, and Peter isn’t sure what to make of that look.

 

-

 

“So what’s this I hear about you painting Pepper’s nails? I thought you hated her.”

 

“Oh, I still kind of do,” Peter replies honestly, perched on the kitchen counter while he takes a coffee break from editing photos. “But she’s nice enough _.” _

 

Peter tries to keep his voice casual, but he knows Tony can see right through him.

 

“We bonded. It was fun,” he deadpans.

 

Tony smirks at him. “I can’t believe I’m hearing Peter Parker give an actual compliment, Mr.  _ ‘I hate everyone.’ _ ”

 

Peter scoffs, mockingly offended. “Well I like  _ you _ don’t I? Even if you are an ass.”

 

Tony smiles at him genuinely, with a twinkle in his eye that makes Peter’s heart flutter. 

 

He hopes Tony always looks at him like that.

 

“You’re so sweet to me, darling,” Tony croons sarcastically.

 

Peter can’t help but return the smile, but it falls a few moments later.

 

“Hey, what’s that look for?” Tony asks, standing up from the table and walking over to Peter, gently placing his palms on Peter’s knees.

 

“We still need to talk about the other night,” Peter says, looking at Tony cautiously through his eyelashes.

 

Tony immediately recoils, avoiding eye contact.

 

“No we do not. It’s fine, I know I have a problem but I’ve a handle on it.”

 

Peter doesn’t move, looking at Tony thoughtfully.

 

He knows very well how Tony feels, and he realizes that the two are more similar than he ever would have thought.

 

Happy people don’t chain smoke, nor do they binge drink; they’re both absolutely miserable underneath the masks they put up. 

 

“I’m not disappointed,” he reassures Tony. “I’m saying I want to come stay in the tower again, indefinitely. For  _ you _ this time.”

 

Tony shakes his head. “No, you don’t need to do that Peter, I don’t need your help-”

 

“Bullshit, you don’t,” Peter interrupts. “There’s no shame in struggling or needing help, _ you _ taught me that. You helped me kick my habit, now let me help you with yours.”

 

Tony still looks wary and unconvinced, so Peter hops off the counter and approaches him, placing his hands on Tony’s shoulders and looking up at him.

 

“You have done  _ so _ much for me. I know I can’t make the nightmares go away, or the insomnia, or a lifetime of emotional baggage. But I  _ can _ support you and just be here.”

 

Tony doesn’t say anything, seemingly taken aback.

 

“Let me help you, Tony,” Peter pleads softly, “with  _ more _ than just the drinking.”

 

Something in Tony seems to crack, mask shattering before Peter’s eyes.

 

“I don’t deserve that, Peter,” he says, wearing an absolutely broken expression, laid open and bare in a way Peter has never seen before. His eyes, so full of sorrow, reveal a man bearing the weight of a world on his shoulders.

 

He looks like a man who thinks he deserves to suffer; for what, Peter isn’t sure. 

 

“I’m here, Tony,” Peter murmurs, pulling him into an embrace. He cradles Tony’s head protectively in the cook of his neck, as if hiding him from the world. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pulling a lot from my own experiences with repressed anger, depression, and alcohol dependency. The drug Tony mentions, Ambien, is an actual sleep drug that is SUPER nasty in terms of side effects, the time my mom was on it were the worst years of my life
> 
> but also! if ur struggling with mental health PLEASE seek out help if possible, relying on one other person for help is not healthy irl

**Author's Note:**

> might upload a continuation eventually, we'll see how the depression treats me lol


End file.
